


Sweet Fluffy Bread

by Fault



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Automat, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Canon, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-09 04:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19881538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fault/pseuds/Fault
Summary: We met at the auto-mat at 4am. I don't know who he is, beyond the name John, but I do like how he looks at me. Cute eventual smut. Pre-canon, pre Helen. John Wicks first reminder in a long time, that some people are made of sunshine, and not everyone is touched by the dark.





	1. The sweetest smile.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-canon. Pre Helen.

Warm Fluffy Bread.

John became unforgettable to me from the first time I ever saw him.

It was at the automat. For those who don't live in the Big City, an automat is a type of restaurant where all the items on the menu sit behind little windows and you pay for them with coins, or in some locations, Pay-wave. Like a cross between those old newspaper boxes, and a vending machine, but proper food. 

There are people out the back making all the food, of course. But you don't have to talk to them or smile at them. Which suits me just fine, since I only go there when I'm half asleep still, on the way to work, but I also hate being rude to people, especially those who are kind enough to provide me decent food at odd hours. 

My local automat is a strange place. All done up in 1950s décor, including the lone door right in back, the one all by itself, out past the kitchen and the toilets. It looks like it could be a novelty door, because it's a faux automat box, with its own oversized coin slot and everything. But it's not, it's a real door. That's why I think this place might belong to the mob or something. I mean, it could be a trendy escape room or something, but somehow, it feels like this is the borderlands between the regular world and something much scarier.

Once in a while a kind of … strange ... person comes in, in the dead of night and disappears into the depths of the store, presumably through that back door.

But it's clean and the food's good, they play interesting music that's not too loud, and it's on a direct route between my apartment and the bakery I work at two blocks away. There are a lot worse things in the Big City than possible mob fronts, so I still eat there semi regularly at 4am, on my way to work at the bakery. Four am? I hear you think in disgust. Yup. Bread doesn't bake itself, and there's nothing quite like a warm fresh roll for breakfast. So I'm in the automat at 4am. At least, I am on the mornings I'm too tired to even fix myself cereal. No-one ever bothers me, and I don't get curious about them. 

Occasionally you have to look at someone to get around the place without smacking into anyone. I met John on the one occasion I failed to do that properly.

It must have been because my eyes were half closed in a yawn. It happened on a long Friday shift, so I'd gotten there at about 3:30 in the morning and my coffee was taking longer than usual to kick in. 

I push myself up from my seat and out into the aisle in one fell motion. Right into this man's path, and he is so striking that I just stare instead of looking away, or better, stepping out of the way. Sleekly dressed, tall, dark, handsome, slim and serious, he just stops still and looks me up and down more intensely than anyone ever has before. 

Now, you need to know something about me. I'm not small framed. I'm fairly tall, and I'm chunky. Lucky me, I'm not so big I can't find cute clothes, at least on the internet. But I am big enough to get the judgement. Anyone who's been fat enough knows what I mean. I take up more space than people think I should, and they let me know it in a hundred tiny ways. It's part of why I tend to dress super cutesy and apologise a lot. I've always liked cute things, and I look young for my age. People like marshmallows. They don't like rhinos who block their path, which is what I am, right now, blocking the path for this gorgeous man. 

“Sorry.” I say automatically in my sweetie-pie voice, though the look he's giving me isn't judgmental, not like that. My heart's pounding so much at the sight of him that my feet don't move when I tell them to. And I'm not sure whether it's more from desire or fear. I've always had a weak spot for brown eyes, and his are truly spectacular. But the intensity in them when he looked me up and down. I've only seen that in police officers or maybe bodyguards, in dangerous situations. People ready to take violent action.

His face softens into a polite expression, and his eyes warm. Maybe he's a supermodel? He wears clothes like a model.

“It's fine.” He says. His voice is like butter on a carving knife. Smooth and rich on the outside, and jagged steel beneath.

I finally move, jerkily, bumping into the table as I get out of his way. I'm still not sure whether fear or desire is winning, but at least I'm awake now.

“Sorry.” I say again. To the table, apparently. He passes me right up close. Oh my Godiva burnt sugar fudge chocolate bars. He smells like a spice rack in a bourbon distillery. Which is to say, like catnip to a cat. I'm the cat. Just to be clear.

“Bye.” I say lamely to his retreating back, and then click my jaw shut and rush out of there before I can be any more embarrassing.

“Bye.” I hear behind me, so softly a can barely hear the amusement in it.

...

The next interaction I have with him is only marginally less awkward.

I'm eating breakfast half asleep as usual. At that moment I happen to be musing about who exactly the mystery automat man was. A high-class escort? A bodyguard? A mobster? (see my previous suspicions about the automat). Not a celebrity trying to lay low, though certainly many celebrities did use automats for that. But I'm certain that I'd remember the face of any actor, or even singer, who had looks like that. A very high class bartender? Maybe he was even just a very rich investment banker who worked international accounts and had weird hours because of that. 

So, self absorbed as I am, I take no note of it when someone sits at the booth across the aisle from me.

So when he clears his throat, I look up and he's right there, in the glorious, manly, sexily stubbled, flesh. I make a little startled squeak. His deep brown hair is sleeked almost to a raven wings shine. Eyebrows sitting low over those observant eyes. Suddenly I feel extraordinarily scruffy. His eyes flick down as he places his plate on the table, and then up again in my direction. My heart skips a beat. Does he remember me? 

“May I?” He asks benignly, pointing at the maple syrup bottle on my table.

“Oh. Sure.” I say, awkwardly, almost knocking it over in my attempt to hand the bottle to him. I feel a shock of warmth from his skin as our fingers brush.

“Thank you.” He says.

I look up at him again. Oh goodness. Those eyes. Now I know I have a(n embarrassingly strong) crush on this mystery man. And I don't even know his name.

“I'm Jo.” I say before he can turn away, back to his own food. “I've seen you in here.”

He pauses a moment, considering. 

“John.” He replies.

I giggle nervously. 

“Sorry.” I say. “It's just.. we almost have the same name.” I try to shrug off my reaction. Try to be cool about my uncoolness. Fail. Blush. Stuff food into my mouth to stop anything else embarrassing coming out of it.

“We do.” He says eventually, with just a hint of amusement in his voice.  
I can feel him looking at me, for at least another moment before he returns to his food. I don't dare look at him for the rest of my meal, but the gentle tone of his words soothes my embarrassment somewhat.

After that I start looking for him every time I enter the automat. John is a mystery that apparently my mind can't leave alone.

...

It's not too long until I see him again. Looking as stunning as usual. He's halfway through eating a steak with mushroom sauce. At 4am. That's the automat for you.

I grab fruit and yogurt, and my usual coffee. Then I take a breath, and screw my courage to the sticking place. I take my plate and mug, and march right up to his table. He looks up. I smile my most winning smile.

“May I sit here?” I say. “It's spooky to be alone this time of night. And you're the closest thing I have to a friendly face around here.”

“Sit.” he says simply, gesturing to the seat.

“Thank you.” I say, and do so. 

We eat in silence. Being so close to him certainly helps wake me up. Every now and then he looks at me with what seems to be curiosity. So I start to blabber about myself.

“I'm a baker. That's why I'm always in here at 4am. Gotta have fresh rolls for the breakfast crowd, you know?”

He nods, and keeps chewing methodically. He's a polite eater. No open mouth. I almost laugh aloud as I have the thought that even what he's eating is a mystery.

“I work at Choux.” I say. 

“Cabbage?” He asks, looking mildly perplexed. Of course he speaks French. International man of mystery, this one.

“The bakery.” I say.

“Ah. From pate a choux.” He says.

“You cook?” I ask, surprised he knows culinary terms.

“I eat.” He says, with a self deprecating little shrug. 

I blush. Then I blush that I blush. Why did my mind turn that into something sexual? Well. Anyone who has eyes and a libido can tell why. But it's still inconvenient. Thank goodness you're never awkwardly waiting for food at the automat.

We eat in silence a little longer.

“Would you like me to walk you to work?” He asks.

I look up at him, my mouth full of food. I don't answer, but I also don't choke. I count this as a win. He takes another bite, and waits patiently for me to finish my food.

He continues. “As you said, it's spooky at this time of night. Especially for a lone young woman.”

I almost say that I'm not as young or defenceless as I look. But I come to my senses, on several levels. He's definitely older than me, he's definitely more capable than me, and he's definitely trying his best to be nice to me. More than that, I'd definitely enjoy his company. 

“Thank you.” I say instead. “That would be nice. I'll probably babble about kitchen equipment and bread making until you ask me not to though. You seem to bring out the talkative side of me.” 

“That's fine. I like your enthusiasm. I feel like I'm learning something.” He says, neatly wiping his face and fingers on a napkin.

That's... almost a compliment. My brain choose that moment to notice how soft his lips look. I fail to make a coherent reply.

Instead I quickly finish my breakfast.

My security escort makes me feel very safe. Maybe he's a bodyguard after all.

...

We do this table buddy thing several times. I see him more than I used to, because I always check if he's there every morning, no matter whether I want to stop and eat. 

He never says much, and I don't ask any questions. I've gathered he's a man of few words.

But after my coffee perks me up, and if he's still sitting there, I'll start telling him about whatever creation I'm working on at the bakery. This is my career, and I love it, despite the unsociable hours.

He listens politely as I babble happily about sour-dough mother, and gluten attenuation and malted flours and whatever else makes me excited that week. 

And more than once, I get him to smile. It's like a ray of pure sunshine in the middle of the Black Forest. I'm hopelessly in love with that smile. 

Mornings aren't so bad anymore.  
...

Then one day I see him on the street. No where near the automat. He's walking through a crowd uptown. A well dressed man in a sea of well dressed men, all purposely striding about in pursuit of lunch or meetings or whatever else business people do uptown. He should be invisible, but somehow my infatuated brain has engraved his stride and his eyes so deep into my visual cortex that I can pick them out in a crowd at a hundred paces. 

“John.” I say as he walks by me.

“Jo.” He skids to a halt. He seems shocked. Fair enough, he's never seen me in a dress and make-up. Or even outside the automat. But still, it's not that big a deal, is it?

“Here.” I say, digging a sweet roll out of my basket, I offer it to him, half-wrapped in a little kerchief. “It's a maple butter yeasted roll, my latest experiment.” 

His gaze flicks around. He looks deeply confused, almost wounded. He ignores the roll.

“Are you on a keto diet or something? I didn't mean to tempt you to break it.” I say, not understanding his reaction. 

“I'm working on high protein cloud bread too. I'll bring some for next time I bump into you at the automat?”

“Sure.” He says, distracted. He takes the roll. “Good-bye Jo.”

And then he melts into the crowd. This time I don't see him go.

...

It's almost a week later when a long, lean impeccably dressed form slides smoothly into the booth across from me.

“Thank you. It was delicious.” John says, holding out a neatly washed and pressed kerchief.

“Aren't they just?” I say, smiling at him, relieved his attitude to me hasn't soured after that weird encounter. I grab the kerchief.

He holds it firm a moment, so I look up at him. “I'm sorry I was so abrupt the other day. I was working.” He says with sincerity, then lets the kerchief go. 

“Oh. Sorry, I should have realised. I totally get being work focused. I've done the same myself.” I smile.

He smiles back. I melt. I think we both enjoy being automat buddies. 

I bring him more rolls after that. It earns another one of his smiles. He's never shown the slightest sign he's romantically interested in me. But I honestly don't care. Those smiles are like magic. Things are perfect just the way they are.

...

This is when things change. It's an average work day at the automat. 4am, quiet and dark. Then I see a familiar silhouette at the back of the automat just as I enter the door. Tall, lean and crisply dressed in black. Right at the back. 

As I watch, John puts a coin into the oversized slot of that strange and ominous door, and disappears through it into darkness. My stomach clenches. Oh great, I think, I have a crush on a mobster. The door clicks closed behind him with solid finality.

“Could be worse.” I whisper to myself as I march on out the door I just strode in. “He could be a rude mobster.” 

This sounds even more ridiculous out loud. But somehow it hasn't killed my interest. I groan in frustration with myself. My mother always said the Big City would ruin me. I never thought it would be like this. 

Thank goodness kneading dough is is good stress relief. What do I do now?


	2. Oh crap, I really care about you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So.. John does walk in another world. What does that mean?

… I don't go to the automat for a little while. Cowards way out, I know. But I just don't know what to do with the information I have. I mean, we're just automat buddies. I mean, he might just be a driver for the mob? I don't know anything for certain, except that John is kind to me, and has a smile like an angel when he thinks no-one is looking. 

But eventually I start going back. Holding my breath each time I check the clientele to see if he's there.

When I finally see him again, it knocks that held breath right out of me. That Door... The ominous, otherworldly, too heavy, too real door in the depths of the automat, is open. A crumpled looking man exits, clothing awry, feet unsteady. It take me a moment to recognise him. But as it slams shut behind him, my feet are instantly pulling me towards this slump-shouldered, bleeding husk of the man I've come to adore. Even on the black suit I can tell the wetness is blood. Not to mention the blood leaking from the scratches on his face. 

“John.” I say as I dash forward.

His head snaps up and instantly his shoulders straighten, and he puts on his polite face. It doesn't disguise the hollowness in his eyes.

“Are you ok?” stupid question. He smooths his hair back, somewhat unsuccessfully.

“I'm fine. Thank you, Jo. Good day.” He moves to push past me, and out of the shop. I do not stand aside. And it seems that he's too polite to shove me out of the way, at least, so far.

I look him straight in the eye.“You're bleeding. I don't need to know why. But I do need to help stop it.” The intensity of my feeling about this whole mess is gathering at the corners of my eyes.

“It's not serious. I would have already treated it if it was serious.” He says calmly, waiting impatiently for me to move.

I lean in and hiss urgently at him. “Look, I know you're a mobster or something. But you're a polite mobster. So just let me get you a band-aid, or something.” I babble.

He barks out a shocked laugh. 

This action seems to surprise us both equally. We stare into each other's eyes a moment. Those intense brown eyes that just for a moment forgot to look hollow, while peeking out from behind his uncharacteristically scruffy locks.

Hoping to keep that hollowness away a little longer, I dig frantically in my bag for my work band-aids. I pull one out and thrust it at him. It's neon green and has “F*$%^!” written across it in big blue letters. 

“Here.” I say, holding it out.

“Ok.” He says as he carefully plucks it from my outstretched fingers. As he looks at it, it seems like he's not sure whether he wants to laugh at it, or cry.

“I have more at my place. And Tylenol.” I say. I hate the idea of this man going home alone, hollowed eyed and bleeding. He hesitates. “It's only two blocks away.”

“Ok.” He says again, looking unsure why he said it. 

He follows me out of the automat. He keeps his composure as we walk. Nothing untoward shows on his face or in his movement, to the casual observer. Obviously that hollow wreck I saw in the automat had been a private moment. He's quiet on the trip to my place. Quiet even for him.

As we get there, I reach in my bag and fetch my keys. “I can tell you've done something to your leg. I'll help you up the stairs. I'm on the second floor.” 

“It's fine.” He says calmly.

“You're tough. I get it. But could you just lean on me? I may look soft, but trust me, I'm not.”

I shut the front door behind us. We face each other at the foot of the stairs.

“Tell me now, are there any wounds you're hiding?” 

We stare at each other a moment. 

He blows out a breath then says. “Right shoulder. Right ankle. Random contusions and scratches.” 

“Ok, right then. That's awkward.” I look him over, and then try each support position out mentally. He's tall. Long limbed. And probably pure muscle under that suit. 

“I'll be lifting you from the left.” I say. “Left arm around my shoulders, I'll grab you around the waist. We kinda do a three legged race thing, only no weight on your right leg, ok?” 

He lifts his left arm so I can scoot in underneath. “Ok.” He says.

“Ok, on two. One, two.” We both step in the middle together, and then I haul him up the next step bodily with a firm grip. Adrenaline is quite the power-up. He grunts in what I hope is surprise.

“Sorry. I didn't grab one of those contusions you mentioned, did I?” I risk a brief glance at his face. It feels too intimate to stare from this close. He's looking at me in appraisal, not pain.

“No. You're strong.” He says. 

“Yeah. Baking is as good as a gym membership.” People don't expect me to be strong. All they see is my squishy outside. But I stand on my feet all day, I bend stubborn gluten to my will with my bare hands, and I cart full bread trays and 20kg bags of flour around on the regular. (Yes, kilograms, we're a bougie bakery. We don't do pounds and ounces.) I'm strong. I'm probably strong enough to carry him upstairs if need be, at least if my adrenaline holds.

We take another step. Obviously it's been too long since my last boyfriend, because the feeling of his body against me is ridiculously distracting. I can feel every muscle clench in concert to move his body up the stairs. Not to mention his smell. He smells like fresh sweat, mainly, overpowering the blood, engine oil, and gunpowder. Don't think about that last smell. Just don't. Now is not the time to mull over that detail.

I'm reminded of our first meeting, because I'm not sure whether I'm more scared or attracted. It makes it easy to reach the top of the stairs without pause, though I'm panting when we get there.

“You good?” I ask, as we get to my floor.

“I'm good.” He says. I disentangle myself from him, and hurry ahead. “I'll get the door.” I say.

After fumbling a little to unlock it, I stand aside, and he walks into my apartment. I follow.

“You mind if I lock us in?” I figure he's the type to be sensitive to such things.

“That's fine.” He says.

I find him standing in my main room, staring at my couch. I have three whole rooms to myself. The kitchen and lounge, my little bedroom, and the ensuite. It's my little sanctuary, all soft and pastel and house plants. Cosy. The couch is super soft, and covered in pastel rainbow cushions.

John looks as out of place as a crow perched on a pile of marshmallows. And he looks as distant and hollow as when I first saw him stumble out through that door. Obviously something big went down today. Obviously, he's not going to breathe a single word of what happened. Equally obviously, I'm not going to ask. I'm not a mobster and I don't want to be. It's just this one beautiful broken man I want to heal. Because my heart is an idiot. A complete soppy idiot.

“Um. You should probably clean up first. Shower's through here.” I say, rummaging through drawers frantically. “I'll get you a towel. I have some old clothes from my last boyfriend somewhere. He had a bigger waistline than you, but they're clean.” I toss everything on the bed and grab my hair-dying towel. 

I return to the lounge and hold it out to him. It's red, with purple stains. He just looks at it.

“It's clean. And don't worry about stains on anything. I'm a girl. I can get blood out of anything.”

He takes the towel. 

“You're soft too.” He says.

“What?” 

“You said before. You are tough, but you're so kind. I...” He looks down at the towel I've given him, as he runs out of words. “Thank you.”

“It's the least I could do.”

He nods, and leaves the room like a forlorn ghost. The door clicks softly closed. I hear the shower start.

I quickly text my boss, citing an injured stray as my reason for being late. She knows how much I love dogs, she'll forgive me so long as I make it in by 6. Then I rush around finding as many medical supplies as I can. I keep a pretty good kit. I get burns, bruises and cuts fairly regularly. Occupational hazard. 

I drag a stool over to the breakfast counter and set everything up neatly in lines, like I know what I'm doing. Cold compress, skin glue. Various bandages and ointments and tweezers and ..stuff. Everything I can find, just to keep myself from thinking too much about the very naked, very attractive, moderately wounded man in my shower. I run out of first aid supplies to arrange. I hear water splashing, and the occasional groan of pain. 

I make baked goods for a living, what am I doing? Wait. That's a good point. I cook. By the time I hear the shower stop, I have a pot of steaming oatmeal on the hob and a dark chocolate mousse chilling in the fridge. 

When he steps out, he looks neat again, even though he's wearing a white t-shirt and sweat pants. He's also wearing his suit jacket, and his hair is slicked back wet. The rest of the suit is folded neatly over his left arm, his shoes hooked on his hand. His eyes are calmer now.

“Here. This is the operating chair.” I gesture lamely at the kitchen stool. 

“Ok.” He sits gingerly, folding the suit on the counter. I'm not sure what he makes of all my first aid kit laid out like that. I hand him the tylenol, and a small glass of alcohol to wash it down with.

“For numbing purposes. It's bourbon. I only eat my alcohol. So it was this, amaretto or kirsh.” I apologise.

“Thank you.” He says, and knocks it all back with barely a grimace. Then I hand him a bowl of oatmeal.

“I figured you should probably eat something while I bandage you up? Good distraction, will help your blood sugar too.”

He stares at it, as it steams gently. Then looks up at me blankly.

“It's oatmeal. Vegan, if that means anything to you. It's made on pecan and almond milk. Easy on the stomach.” I plonk a spoon and a bottle of maple syrup down beside it.

He picks up the spoon, and blows on a mouthful before eating it.

“May I.. should I.. Can I look at the ankle first?”

He nods once. 

Kneeling in front of him, I pick up his leg carefully, and gently scrunch the sweatpants leg up to his knee to look at his right ankle. Not only is there a rather swollen ankle, there's a spectacular scar halfway up the shin, and a whole series of fresh bruises on the knee. He smells like my body wash. Focus Jo. 

“Contusions.” I say, redundantly.

I smooth vitamin K cream over the bruises with the lightest touch I can manage, followed by wrapping it in a moderately firm compression bandage. Then I move on to the ankle. 

“Um.. this is going to hurt. I need to check for damage.”

“Go ahead.”

I feel around. “No broken bones. I just need to see if the illotobial band is intact. Ready?”

I hold his calf, push on his foot to see if it bend outwards more than it should. “All good.” I say. He hasn't made a peep. I repeat same ointment and bandage treatment with the ankle, only this time making sure the bandage is properly supportive and tight. I'm being so careful that I'm embarrassed by my slowness. John doesn't seem to mind. He just watches, and eats. 

“Um.. rest, Ice, compression, elevation. I'll move you to the couch after I do your shoulder.”

“It's better for you if you don't see the tattoos on my back.” He says, woodenly, putting the empty bowl down.

“Oh.” I say. “Um, you think you can position this under your jacket?” I hand over the cold pack. He does.

Once I settle him on the couch, I crouch down and start on the scratches, carefully folding his hair back, little by little, placing ointment only against the scratches on his scalp before moving onto his face. They're not too deep. With good treatment, they shouldn't leave a scar. I concentrate very carefully on not noticing how soft his hair and skin feel, and how much I want to touch them. So it takes a while until I notice his eyes on me, so close and sad and soft and so very vulnerable. I suddenly have a strong urge to try kiss away his pain. We both stay still for a long moment, my fingers still caressing his gorgeous cheek bones.

“I forgot about the mousse.” I say. 

“Huh?” 

“Chocolate mousse, it soothes the soul. It should be firm by now.” I try to stand and go get it but he traps my hand onto his cheek with his own larger, stronger hand and my legs lose all coordination. 

“Kiss me.” He says.

“Huh?” I say. He turns his head and kisses the palm of my hand, eyes not leaving mine. 

“Please.” He says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok.. so it's pretty obvious that it's all just smut from here on in (pun intended). But I'm not sure I want to write it. 
> 
> Not because I think it would be an imposition upon Keanu Reeves' professional persona to depict a character of he portrays getting it on. He's shown through his choices as an actor that he's more concerned about respecting his acting partners and respecting the story he's telling than he has any concern for the explicit nature of any scenes he is part of.
> 
> It's more that I do want to respect this story. Because I don't... write sex? I don't /usually/ find it integral to the stories I want to tell... Also for that reason I tend to write it really badly. And I don't want to do that to these characters. Especially my OC, she's a sweetie that can melt the heart of a hardened assassin... Well, I've done my best to portray her as such, in any case.
> 
> But, you never know, this story might have a happy ending after all. (Do I use humour to deflect the impact of sexual references? Yes, yes I do, and I make no apologies for it.)
> 
> Anyway. Watch this space. There may or may not be more to come.


	3. Choose your own adventure, ending A: Tear jerker.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You chose the tear jerker ending. Here's a tissue ... and your insulin. Turn to Page 3.

I kiss him. I have no willpower with this polite gangster. I lean in and kiss him on the lips. He's warm and gentle, and I can feel the roughness of a split in his bottom lip, and his beard tickles me in a way that makes me shiver. How is it that he's hurt, yet he's still perfect? He deepens the kiss, lips open, breath warm. I respond, softly at first. This first taste of him is sweet and imploring and hungry. 

A mere taste isn't enough. As we deepen the kiss I press him back down onto the couch, eager to feel more of his body against mine. I cup his cheek with my hand, then stroke downward, feeling his jawline, and then his neck. His muscles are prominent under his skin. His pulse is racing.

When I break off the kiss to catch my breath, his pupils are dilated, his cheeks flushed. It might be the single most erotic sight of my entire life. 

“Wow.” I croak. He stretches up to nuzzle me with his nose. I gasp in desire.

“Have sex with me.” He whispers into my ear. I shiver from both the tickle of his lips against my skin, and from the words.

“Are you sure? I mean, you've had a rough day.” I think about how injured he is.

“I'm sure. Please. Do what you like with me. Just.. be with me. Fuck me so I feel it." 

I think too much about those scratches on his head. Of the smell of gunpowder. I think about how he got injured like that. I freeze. He continues to kiss my neck. It sickens me how good it feels.

“Stop.” I say.

“You want me.” He says with certainty, not backing away.

I close me eyes against the intoxicating view. “I do. I want you because of your smile, and because you're nice to me. And because you look so God-damned hot in a suit.”

“I am all of those things. And I want you.” He whispers huskily. I flap my hands in distress, trying to wave away his sexy aura.

“You are. But, be honest with me right now.” I take a deep breath, and lock his gaze, because I need to see how he reacts. 

“You killed someone today.” True. 

“Someone who fought back.” True. 

“Someone you knew.” Also true.

He sits back. “So you think if I can assassinate even someone I care about, you're not safe from me? You have nothing to fear from me.” He is back to being as still and composed as a winter pond.

He used that word, that word I feared was attached to him. Assassin. I reply. “I think that if you're a cold blooded killer, I don't... want you any more. I bake bread, John. Nice bread, so that people will smile as they eat breakfast. You end lives. For money.”

“The man I killed today was another assassin. An assassin who was trying to kill me.” John explains.

“Being a killer with standards doesn't cut it with me John.” I say shakily, I'm trying hard not to cry. “I ate at the automat because I thought it might _not_ be a... a gangster den. I thought it might only be a weird sex dungeon, or an escape room, or something. I didn't eat there because I got a kick out of eating breakfast surrounded by assassins.”

“So this is goodbye?” He says softly, regretfully.

“I'm not going to become a molly ganger.” I say.

“Molly ganger?”

“Whatever. And you're not going to stop being an assassin. It's not like you're some desperate kid who took this job to clear a debt, John. Look at you. You're rich. You do this because you want to, and it's been that way a while, by the looks.”

John looks hollow again. It hurts to see, even now. Fuck, I'm a sucker for those eyes.

“Honestly, I don't know what you saw in me, unless you get a kick out of seducing women into joining your world or something?” Today has been such a betrayal of a day, I'd believe this was possible.

“It wasn't that. That's not what you are to me.” He says, with feeling.

“Then what?” 

“You are the most wholesome person I've ever met. At first I couldn't believe you were real. Then I just enjoyed your company. You're like sunshine in Spring. Your smile is so beautiful I want to kiss your mouth every time I see you.”

“I guess... I'll just take that compliment, and move on. See you in the next life, maybe? Maybe you'll come back as a yeast, and make some good bread.”

“It's more likely I'd be a yeast that makes some cheap bourbon.” Both of us have the slightest trace of smile at that. The last smile of his I ever see. 

“Either way, you'd be making someone happy.” I say.

He nods.

“I hope you don't drop the 'with standards' part.” I say.

“I hope not either. That part is how I've been able to sleep, so far.”

So I help John down the stairs. He goes of in one direction. I go in the other. 

The second I get to work my boss takes one look at me and says. “The stray didn't make it, did he?”

“No.” I say. And she hugs me while I burst into tears. 

Thank goodness baking is still therapy. For the 'Special of the Day' we make a batch of these adorable buns that look like dogs, with a hot-dog hidden inside. I donate my tips to my local rescue. And I don't ever visit that automat again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me doesn't think someone as nice as Jo could actually get it on with an assassin. But it would become the wake-up call that John needs that lets him find Helen, and launch a thousand bullets in order to keep her. (Yes, I made a Helen of Troy reference/joke).


	4. Choose your own adventure Ending B: Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You picked sexy time. Uh oh, this was a bad idea. I warned you. Turn to page 4.

John kisses me super good and wet, just how I like it best, and we have sexy sexy sexy-sex. We have sex for so long my boss fires me. After loads of unimaginiably excellent sexors I try on his suit and accidentally shoot one of my couch cushions with a gun hidden in it. We laugh and laugh and laugh, but it's also sexy, so then I make more sex positions with him . The gun shot damage makes me lose my apartment, oh no! But Sexy John Wick swoops in to save me, and we live together, and then he makes me his super rich sexy trophy assassin wife partner with a super symbolic sexy-gothic black wedding ring. He uses it to kill someone before he puts it on my finger, still dripping in blood. 

I become super sexy-rich which of course means I lose weight (except on my boobies of course) and get pale skin from only going out at night. I get my hair straightened and dyed super-black, and I wear a slinky black and/or red bulletproof dress, and bulletproof make-up, and some kinky underwear and some super pointy high high heels so I can look John straight into his sexy dark sexy eyes. All the assassins at the Continental are super jealous of John, including/especially the sexy female assassins. The idea of sexy assassin threesomes is very erotic and John does the sexist sex time he's ever done, all night. 

In fact he does such a long and spectacularly loud sex time that not only does he turn on every assassin in the entire hotel (Winston and Charon totally get it on in the gun vault thanks to John's mystical erogenous explosion), he misses his deadline (pun!) for a Job of his, (uhoh!) and we laugh and laugh and laugh.

Everyone lives happily ever after... except for the piles and piles and piles and piles of dead people. (the ones we assassinate, sexily of course). 

The end.

...

Until the sequel: John Wick 0.5: Doctor Sex Death.

In the opening scene, John dies of the cholera he caught from the massive pile of rotting corpses. I sexily avenge him by becoming a sexy assassin doctor who commits genocide against germs with powerful and sexy vaccinations. Until one day I have to have sex with an extremely sexy patient named Joe who will die if I don't orgasm him mightily. I get kicked out of Doctoring for unprofessional conduct, but it's okay because he owns a dog farm, and I go back to murder killing people for a living, and we play with puppies every weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you. Be good or I'll make this chapter a pod-fic.
> 
> Ps: you may have noticed that I find the concept of sexy violence mockable. Violence isn’t sexy. Violence naturally is an extreme action to an extreme circumstance. It makes good stories. It is otherwise repellent to me. I love John Wick because it is so stylised and movie sanitised. The blood looks like video game blood. The action is a dance performed for my amusement. I also find John’s suffering to be captivating. I highly recommend people who love John Wick to seek out Bunraku, starring Josh Hartnett, Gackt, and Ron Perlman.


End file.
